


Dinner for Two

by whiskeyandspite



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Banter, Cooking, Friendship, M/M, Nostalgia, Sexual Tension, Teasing, past history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 09:22:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9997169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: He watches, next, where the knife is inserted. He watches how carefully it is drawn against the spine of the fish, how one hand remains in place to hold it still. He watches the flesh peel away to reveal the white bone within.“Chop the bloody potatoes, Lecter,” Gordon mutters, eyes on his work as he continues to fillet the salmon before him. Hannibal feigns obedience.Two brilliant chefs preparing dinner. What could go wrong?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SLSmith22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLSmith22/gifts).



> My lovely Staci requested something between these two that wasn't crack ;) so I gave her banter and sexual tension. Enjoy!
> 
> All mistakes are my own, apologies in advance.

The knock comes at precisely seven-fifteen, as the invitation had suggested, and a quiet click of leather shoes carries Hannibal to the door.

“You’re on time.”

“I’m Scottish.”

It’s hard not to smile. The man before him is just as oddly scruffy as he always looked at school, just as oddly scruffy as he looks on television. But there is something about the way his mouth moves when he smiles, the depth of lines there, that has Hannibal enchanted all over again. He steps aside and gestures for the other to step inside.

“It’s been a long time.”

“Hasn’t changed you much, though, has it?” The blonde turns. Grins. “Still as pompous a shit as you could possibly be, aren’t you, Hannibal?”

“It would hardly do to disappoint, Gordon,” Hannibal replies. “We’ve the kitchen yet to test that.”

The joking hadn’t always been so amicable. Youth hadn’t been kind to either of them, and their desperate desire for perfection made tensions run high in the kitchen. It became a form of entertainment for the other students, after a while; watching Lecter and Ramsay attempt to take the other apart in the kitchen, one screaming, one quietly threatening… both exceptional cooks.

They had always partnered well.

They had never allowed themselves to admit that.

“I’m surprised you haven’t taken your show on the road,” Gordon says, shrugging off his jacket and accepting Hannibal’s help in hanging it up. “Easy money.”

“Seems tough on the nerves, however,” Hannibal replies. “Although, I do suppose your ego gets quite the stroking.”

“It helps.”

The kitchen Hannibal directs them to is enormous, chrome and dark wood, with a middle island large enough for two to work on. It is a kitchen for the kinds of meals it takes seven people to prepare.

“Fuck me,” Gordon doesn’t even bother to turn to look at Hannibal. “You weren’t joking.”

“The invitation was quite clear, I thought. Dinner for two. A way to reconcile old differences and congratulate you on yet another successful season of your very enjoyable television series.”

Hannibal reaches for two aprons with a smile, holding one out for Gordon to take with another muttered curse and a smile. Hannibal had never been one to allow annoyances to linger, in youth or into his adult life. But once in a while, someone found their way into a part of his life that demanded to remain untouched. Gordon Ramsay was one such individual. Even putting aside the difficulties which would come with attempting to erase someone as prolific and clever without people asking questions, the man was an endless source of inspiration for Hannibal.

Do better, work harder. One day, invite him to dinner.

“So what’s on the menu, then? Uovo da raviolo? Again?”

“I was thinking, perhaps, something more homely. Mashed potatoes and salmon fillet.”

Gordon laughs, tying the apron back and drawing a hand through his hair as he regards his host. “What, the mess hall meals?”

“Why not?”

“They were bloody good meals,” he agrees, rolling his shoulders. He had always been as full of nervous energy as Hannibal was of disturbing calm. The other side of the talent coin, as it were. “And the easiest thing to make for the end of a fifteen hour fucking day.”

“Precisely.” Hannibal opens the fridge to retrieve the fish. “How is your wife?”

“An angel, if I’m honest. Don’t know if I would be patient enough to live with me.”

“That tends to be the reason so many of us find our partners in our opposites,” Hannibal remarks, setting more ingredients on the island between them, as Gordon leans to take a knife from the block and test it against his finger.

“This apply to you as well, then?”

“On occasion.”

Gordon snorts. “A woman?”

“Not this time.”

“Does he leave a mess all over your kitchen?”

Hannibal pauses, a smile warming the corners of his eyes, before turning to set the last of the seasoning to the countertop.

“And then some.”

“Must be quite the man, to destroy Hannibal Lecter’s impenetrable calm and remain unscathed,” the other comments, eyes bright beneath his brows.

“He makes very good coffee.”

“I think my skills in the same department keep Tana from divorcing me,” Gordon admits, offering another narrow-eyed glance at Hannibal before setting his knife down and pushing his sleeves up past his elbows. “Let’s get to it, then, haven’t got all night.”

For someone with such incredible skill, patience was never a virtue of Gordon Ramsay.

They divide the work seamlessly, falling quickly into old habits that had been drilled into them at the Monnaie de Paris. Hannibal allows Gordon the fish as he works on peeling the potatoes. One thing, perhaps, that they had always had in common was their love for the menial tasks. Both of them, as young men, would stay up past their work hours to practice chopping and slicing, getting the speed up to scratch for their mentor.

Now, Hannibal watches strong hands set to the pink fish, feeling for the bones within, pressing just enough to feel his way, and not damage the flesh. A strange calm comes over the man before him; though his movements remain just as quick and just as occasionally erratic, he settles into a state that is almost meditative when he works. It’s rare to witness on television, though Hannibal is certain it’s there, and it’s a wonder to see it here in his own kitchen.

He watches, next, where the knife is inserted. He watches how carefully it is drawn against the spine of the fish, how one hand remains in place to hold it still. He watches the flesh peel away to reveal the white bone within.

“Chop the bloody potatoes, Lecter,” Gordon mutters, eyes on his work as he continues to fillet the salmon before him. Hannibal feigns obedience.

Their rivalry had become infamous; though never once did either sabotage the other’s work. If they held anything, it was integrity and pride in their work. Together, they created symphonies of tastes. Alone they created masterpieces.

Gordon had left Paris first. Hannibal hadn’t followed him.

Neither talk, now, as they prepare their meal. Neither need to. One knows just as well as the other when to season, what to retrieve. There is no screaming from Ramsay about how to properly treat root vegetables. There is no quiet hum of menace in Hannibal’s tone in regards to how to properly sear fish. There is a mutual respect of food here. A mutual worship of it.

They move from the island to the stove minutes apart; Hannibal to set his potatoes to cook while he prepares a salad for the side, a dressing to go atop, Gordon to take down a heavy skillet and pour oil in brisk swirls onto the iron.

Standing so close, their breath syncs up, partially quickened but not enough to tire either of them. Hannibal supposes they have worked too long and too hard to be so quickly defeated by so easy a meal. He hums in pleasure as the fish is set skin-down to sear and allows his hands to rest against the chopping board.

“I still have a distaste for cinnamon,” he admits, turning to rest his cheek against his shoulder, watching Gordon work near him. “From when Savoy showed his displeasure.”

“All over the fucking kitchen,” Ramsay replies, grinning. “All over our fucking clothes. All over the evening meal.”

“Disastrous,” Hannibal smiles. “I had a mind to displace the rest of the spices, when he passed.”

“I know.” Gordon hums. “I caught several as you elbowed them off their shelves. Impatient bastard.” Hannibal gives him an arch look, and it’s enough to draw another deep laugh from the Brit beside him. “Shut up.”

Hannibal watches a moment more, settling his eyes on the gentle trembling of the fish on the heat, before stretching his shoulders in a feline arch and stepping back to continue his work. That day had had the entire kitchen in a panic. Their food was useless. Their staff morale was incredibly low. They had a full house beyond, impatiently awaiting their meals. It had been a rife night for a fistfight, but neither had succumbed to the temptation. Instead, Gordon had allowed that perhaps a cool head was better than a loud voice, and worked as Hannibal’s second.

Just that once.

The fish is flipped and the kitchen fills with the aroma of dill and white pepper, truffle oil and paprika. The potatoes continue to boil.

Perhaps Hannibal could have, too, continued in his culinary pursuits after Paris; could have remained in his mentorship and not gone into medicine. Perhaps it would have been an easier life.

But he certainly would not have met Will Graham in one of his restaurants, were that the case.

Hannibal doesn’t stop him when Gordon seeks in the fridge for white wine, says nothing as it’s splashed liberally on the fish and flames lick high against the backdrop of the room. He nods when two glasses are taken down next, and filled for them both to enjoy a drink as they work.

“I was gonna retire after that,” Ramsay says after a moment. “After Paris. Seemed a bloody waste of my time. I wasn’t sleeping/”

“Yet here you are,” Hannibal replies. “Hosting a series on television. Several, I believe. And a slew of your own restaurants.”

“You know why?”

“Hmm?”

“I thought I’d rather work myself ragged than have Hannibal bloody Lecter upstage me with his dinner parties.”

Hannibal considers him a moment, eyes narrowed and head cocked, before tilting his chin up proudly and reaching just past Gordon to turn the gas off for his element.

“I hadn’t thought you would know about them.”

“The entirety of high society in Baltimore knows about them, Hannibal.”

“You’re Scottish.”

“And you’re a goddamned shit, aren’t you?”

It’s rare that Hannibal smiles and allows his teeth to show. Ramsay had always been one of the few people to ever get a smile like that out of him.

“I’m busy,” he replies, haughtily. “Running an elaborate audition. I’ve not the time for insults.”

“A fucking audition?”

“You can’t always believe what you see on television, Mister Ramsay,” Hannibal tells him. “And my dinner parties are not known for their failure.”

“Is that an invitation or a challenge, Hannibal?”

“Was this evening one or the other? Or both, perhaps, since you could never resist either.”

“You’d not serve your guests mash and salmon.”

“No, this evening is for you and I alone,” Hannibal assures him. “It would hardly do to emulate our mentor in his bad habits. But tomorrow, perhaps…”

“How many?”

“A dozen, no more.”

“And the courses?”

“Of your choosing. Unless you prefer to be directed.”

“Four, then,” Ramsay huffs, checking the fish as Hannibal moves to drain the potatoes, the steam coiling light against the ceiling before dissipating. “Including dessert.”

“Just enough work for the two of us then.” Hannibal agrees.

“For a dozen guests.”

“And the two of us. And your wife, of course, should she be available.”

“Waitstaff?”

“I hire.”

“And your partner?”

“Will bring terrible wine that goes with nothing at all, and feel completely out of place.”

Gordon smiles, bringing the wine to his lips to take a deliberate sip.

“Five?”

“Perfect.”

“And now?”

“Do you wish to serve or to set?”

“I never serve.”

Hannibal allows a pause, heavy and warm with the breaths between them; quicker than they had been when they were working.

“Then set,” he replies. “And sit. You are my guest, after all.”


End file.
